Libration
by Polly Lynn
Summary: "She could be patient if it weren't for him. If it weren't for the fact that he isn't." Follow up to Ephemeris and end of the series that begins with Perigee. Four-shot. Post–For Better or For Worse (6 x 23).
1. Chapter 1

Title: Libration, Ch. 1

WC: ~2100

Rating: T

Summary: "She could be patient if it weren't for him. If it weren't for the fact that _he _isn't."

Follow up to Ephemeris and end of the series that begins with Perigee. This will be a two-shot.

* * *

><p>Libration — līˈbrāSHən/ — noun — The gentle rocking motion of the Moon as it orbits

the Earth that allows observation of the side that normally faces away from our planet.

* * *

><p>She could be patient if it weren't for him. If it weren't for the fact that <em>he <em>isn't.

But he does stupid things. He pushes himself. Physically, anyway. He pushes her and Alexis and Martha. He tries to get away with too much. He makes end runs around all of them. He works harder at things than he should. He takes chances when he's alone. When he could seriously hurt himself, and Kate ends up the bad guy.

She ends up being the scold. The enforcer who hides the heavier hand weights he's not supposed to work with yet. The one who snaps off the light and takes the book from his hand when the tight lines appear around his eyes. She's the one who bumps his good hip hard enough to unbalance him and takes his weight back into the chair because he's doing too much. He's hurting himself.

She gets it.

He has nightmares about the room. Terrible nightmares of a narrow bed and the one corner of skylight he could see from there. Half stories his mind has strung together from Cross's few-and-far-between ramblings and all that silence. It's too much for anyone. Unthinkable for him.

He looks at the calendar. He sees the weeks gone—taken from them—and he wants to _move. _

He wants to be up and around and better. He wants to be strong enough to be by her side when whatever it is—whatever it might be—finally comes calling.

But he's doing too much for his body to heal right. And he's strangely stubborn about the other part. The speech therapy. She's the scold there, too. The bully. She's the one who puts the iPad and the white board and every scrap of paper out of reach and makes him work hard for words out loud.

He fumes at her—silently, of course. He's sulky. Morose, then abruptly remorseful.

_I'm sorry. Kate. I'm s . . . I'm sorry. _

That comes out easily enough. He's mastered the apology, and he always tries, right after. Any time she tears up or raises her voice. The very second he bristles or snaps it shuts him down. Even if she deserves it. Even if she's hovering or managing him or talking over his head, it shuts him down immediately. They're both painfully contrite at the merest hint of friction, and for a little while, he'll try.

_It's furn . . . ful . . . Kate. I am . . . _

He looks at her, desperate and casting about for words that should _be_ there. They've always just been there, and it breaks her heart, doing this to him. Watching him struggle.

_It is _frustrating.

His mouth twists. A miserable smile when he gets it out at last.

_I know,_ she says, and she steps into him. She erases the space between them and lets his hands on her body say all the things he can't. _I know. _

But she doesn't know. She can hardly imagine. Even though he fills pages and pages with it. Even though he pushes them across the desk or the table or the expanse of the mattress to her. Even though he tucks napkins and envelopes and scraps of paper into the palm of her hand. Even though he needs her to know, she doesn't, really.

She can hardly imagine.

* * *

><p>She hears the crash all the way from the elevator. She draws her weapon and keeps it pressed along her thigh as she sprints the length of the hallway. She struggles to get the key in the lock one-handed. She's at the point of kicking the damned door in when she hears it.<p>

His voice, loud and clear, a stuttering chain of curses. One word at a time, but each is precise. Deliberate and exactly what he wants to say.

The door finally gives. She rolls into the room, her gun raised, but it's empty. The kitchen and the living room. The stairs and as far as she can see down the long hallway above.

"Castle?" She could kick herself for calling out like that, but there's no one keeping him quiet. His voice comes right away.

"Kate?"

He trips over that. The rising inflection. Her name is easy enough for him, she realizes, but not when it's a question. Not when it's asking for something or teasing or saying _I love you _as simply as he always has in just the space of her name.

It's something else entirely that he's lost. Something she'd go to the ends of the earth to take back for him if she could. Not just the words themselves, but tone. Shading the same sounds to mean different things. He struggles with it, and that's worse than the wrong thing bubbling up. For him and for them, that loss of nuance is so much worse.

She holsters her gun as she drifts to the door of the office. He's on the floor. His bad leg is stretched out in front of him, and there's a puddle of something dark spilling out from his hip. It's deep enough to pool, even on the thick carpet. In the low light, all she can think at first is _blood_.

She launches herself across the room. She's on her knees at his side in an instant. He seems to know. He catches her awkwardly with one arm around her shoulders, holding one hand high and away from her.

"Ink," he manages, and it's panicked. He knows she's worried, and the feeling comes through in the rush to reassure her. A strange and welcome departure from the hard edges and the flat, clipped sound of words he has to work for. He holds his palm up between them. It's black and shining in patches.

"Ink," he says again. "It fell. I fell." He smiles. Wicked and proud of what technically amounts to two sentences in a row. "Everything fell."

"Don't look so smug." The words are low and fierce. The adrenaline is still pumping, but he's ok. He's alone and swearing and he fell, but he's _ok. _She kisses him harder than she's really dared so far. "Falling is bad."

His hands close around her arms and somewhere in the back of her mind she knows everything she's wearing is done for. Absolutely everything, and she couldn't care less.

"Sometimes." His teeth catch her lip. A sharp bite, though she knows he means the rebuke for himself, and he's wrapped up in the kiss anyway. She's wrapped up in the kiss and worry is a blessedly distant thing.

"Falling," he murmurs. "Good sometimes."

* * *

><p>She's not expecting his voice. It's dark. Late, and this isn't something they can do anymore. Pillow talk. It's beyond them for now. Because of the dark. Because the only way he can get comfortable is spooned up behind her. Because he loses so much of what he's trying to say when he can't see her face. When she can't see his.<p>

But he's trying. He turned off the light himself and obediently set aside the notebook he keeps tucked in the nightstand drawer now. He's trying for her. For them.

"Go away . . . " He reaches for her. The words stall. She can practically hear him locking up. Mind and body and whatever complicated fusion of the two needs time and effort and patience to heal. He reaches for her, though. An urgent correction in the way his hands slide the soft fabric of her nightshirt aside to bare her shoulder. An apology in the way his mouth nestles there. "Come away . . ."

She writhes in his arms, twisting to face him. She lays her palm along his cheek. "Come away?"

He nods. He presses the unhappy line of his lips sideways to her fingers and says it out loud. '"Yes." His brow furrows. "The two . . . We should go away."

His face lights up. Just half a second, but she sees it, even in the dark. She feels it. The suddenly easy lift of muscles under her fingers. She smiles with him. Just half a second, because it's good. His speech is getting more reliable in general. Longer strings of words, and when he tries, he can hold on to the original thought. The original word. He works his way toward it, rather than skirting around. It's more obvious when he's trying like this.

_Away_.

She smiles, but just for half a second, because it's not so simple. "You and me . . . "

"Two of us." He takes advantage when she hesitates. He presses with another string of words he's kept hold of. "We should."

"Why?" She asks though she shouldn't. There are a hundred reasons why they can't. Why they _shouldn't, _and it's not fair to lead him on.

"I'm . . ." He wriggles closer. She feels his jaw tighten. His leg is worst at night, and it's one of the reasons they can't. One of the hundred. "I am mer . . ." His hand skips back from her waist. It hovers over her hip and there's something guilty in it. His head tips down, further into shadow.

"Mean," he says finally. "Here. I'm mean."

"_Mean?" _She snatches at his hand. She forgets and squeezes too hard. He's out of the splint, but his wrist and hand are still stiff and sore.

"Sorry." She presses his fingers to his mouth in an absent kiss. "Sorry. Castle . . . mean? No."

"Yes. Am." He nods unhappily. "Don't . . . I don't . . . mean . . ." He trips over it. Not for long though. He catches it again. Smiles when he realizes it's right. "Don't _mean _to be."

"Funny." She kisses him for that. She has to. "_Funny_."

He preens a little. Lifts their hands together and takes something like a bow, but he falls quiet. Serious too soon. "It's hard. Here. Everyone. Ha . . . hard on _you_. Difficult." He's proud of that, too. Smiling, even if it's more than a bit grim.

_No_. It's what she wants to say and what she _should _say. Except she owes him the truth. Here in the dark, especially. When he's trying like this.

He presses his palm to her hip. He works his fingers under her shirt and skates them over the small of her back. An apology they've used between them for a long while now. The way they make peace, when one of them is too mad or too stubborn to talk. It feels like old times. His fingertips dipping into hollows and his palm curling at her hip. It feels like before everything.

"It's hard because it's _hard_, Castle." She lets herself sink deeper into the pillow. "Because you're in pain. And we're all dealing with . . ." She trails off. _The accident. Cross._ That's what she's thinking—that she can't possibly take him away from Martha and Alexis—but his mind is somewhere else.

"Me," he says quietly. Mournfully. He tips his face away from her. Up at the ceiling. "Damage."

"No." She hauls herself up on an elbow. She chases after him and gets in his face. "_No_, Castle."

He gives her a flat look. His eyebrow quirks up, and it's a black rendition of one he's given her a thousand times. _Really, Beckett? _

She narrows her eyes. "Yes, ok. Physical therapy. Speech therapy. That part's hard. Not _you._ But the work is hard. It's hard to watch, but you're getting better. And all of that's _here. _We can't just . . ."

He raises his head up from the pillow and cuts her off. An unexpected kiss. A smile as he lifts up toward her and pale light through the window falls across the upward-turned corner of his mouth

"Couple days." He settles back into the pillow and she knows that look. He thinks he's getting to her.

"Castle . . ." She's exasperated. He's getting to her.

"Couple days," he repeats. His fingers find their way to her skin again. A bolder sweep this time as he nudges her closer. He lowers his mouth to her ear and sings low. _"Come away with me in the night. Come away with me."_

Her heart goes small and tight in her chest, then swells.

He's _singing._

He's supposed to be. It's supposed to help, and before . . . before she couldn't _stop _him. In the car. In the shower. When she's trying to read or she's on the phone. Before, he was inclined to drive her nuts with it and he never knows the words.

But he hasn't . . . all this time he's refused, even though his therapist gave him a list of a dozen papers showing that it helps, he's absolutely refused until now.

His voice is a purr all over her skin. Rich and confident in the dark. He knows the words. It pushes breath and tears and longing up and up and all she can do is choke out something stupid.

"Norah Jones, Castle? Really?"

He ignores her. He presses his cheek to hers like they're on a dance floor somewhere.

"_Come away with me. And I'll never stop loving you." _


	2. Chapter 2

Libration, Ch. 2

Rating: T

WC: ~1500 this chapter, ~3800 so far

Summary: "She keeps asking, though. Not because she doesn't want it. Because she _does,_ and she's sure it's impossible. She's sure she can't have it, even though they're leaving in the morning."

A/N: I know I said a two-shot, but I wanted to break this differently. It's four chapters total, but the final three are being posted simultaneously.

* * *

><p>They're leaving in the morning. A couple of days, that's all, and even so she can't quite believe it.<p>

She thinks it's impossible. _Still. _She thinks it's crazy, and any minute she expects someone to burst in. She expects the phone to ring or a searchlight blazing through the window. A bullhorn and a disembodied voice booming.

_Absolutely not. Impossible. _

But they're leaving in the morning.

"You want . . ."

He's in the bathroom mirror over her shoulder. It's startling. Something about the reversal. The two of them flipped side to side. He looks like himself, suddenly. Gaunt, even now, and stooped with weariness, because it's late, but he looks like himself.

"I want?" She turns to face him. It's automatic. Prompt and repetition. He looks frazzled. Annoyed, even though it's what she's supposed to do. She's not supposed to finish his sentences.

"I want?" She takes a step toward him as she says it again. He looks so much like himself that it draws her in.

He forgets he's annoyed as she closes the distance. Electricity sparks between them. He reaches for her. He forgets he was in the middle of asking. He gives her a sharp smile, because she's not supposed to do that, either. _Disrupt. _She's not supposed to, but he smiles like they're getting away with something.

His palms smooth over her hips and he sways into the doorframe. She sways right along, and it _feels_ like him. The broad expanse of his chest under her hands, even though his pajama pants are cinched too tight. Even though he's unsteady on his feet and they might go over together at any second, it feels like them.

"Go." The word comes out uncertainly as their lips part. "You. Want to . . . go. Right?"

He makes it into a question. An exaggerated lift at the end that puts her in mind of Martha, and she's sorry. She's sorry that he doubts her.

She knows what this is. Where it's coming from, because she's asked and asked and asked again. Everyone. Martha and Alexis.

_Darling. How wonderful. Yes. _

_Dad. Of course. We'll miss you both. _

The boys and Lanie and every single doctor. Every single therapist. She just keeps asking and they're all for it. They all swear they have everything covered. That it's a great idea and everything will be fine.

She keeps asking, though. Not because she doesn't want it. Because she _does,_ and she's sure it's impossible. She's sure she can't have it, even though they're leaving in the morning.

He's been smug about it. Insufferable as, one by one, they've taken his side. Humming under his breath every time. But he's not smug now. He's looking away. Looking at the floor. He's embarrassed and hopeful and _worried._ Afraid to ask, but he makes himself raise his eyes to hers. She feels the effort.

"Right?" he asks again.

"I want to." She steps back from him. She keeps hold of his hands and steps back into the harsh light of the bathroom. She lets him see her face as she raises their arms high and lets go with her right hand. "I want to. So much, Castle."

She twirls herself back into his body. Into his smile as he presses his cheek to hers.

She sings softly. "_Come away with me._"

* * *

><p>It rains the whole way. It's crushing. Stupidly crushing, but there should be sun. The day should be perfect, and it's not.<p>

She's tired with peering through the curtain of gray. Leaning forward as though getting up close and personal with the slap of the wiper blades will actually help her see the road any better.

His leg hurts. It's the longest stretch he's had to sit with his knee bent even a little, and she has to keep herself from asking every two seconds if he's ok. If he wants to stop.

"Want . . ." He scowls. Frustrated with himself. The pain makes everything worse and he wouldn't take anything for it. "Just want to be there."

"Five words." She pokes at him a little. Teases him, because he worries to much about being mean and she needs him to remember what they're like. What they've always been like. "A record?"

"Eight," he says instantly. He counts them off on his fingers, even though they come slowly. One word at a time. "Beckett. Why. Do. You. Taste. Like. Cheap. Coffee."

"Beckett doesn't count." She tries to keep the smile from curling up the corners of her mouth. "And you missed 'do'."

He laughs. A half-annoyed snort. "Counts."

"Does not. You totally missed . . ."

"Counts." He cuts her off, and that's a first. It's loud and clear and adamant enough to cut her off. He reaches out to brush her fingers where they rest on the gearshift. "Beckett counts."

* * *

><p>There's a moment when she thinks it's a terrible mistake.<p>

She eases them off the main road. They're following the long, winding drive to the house and the fog is too thick for the headlights to do much of anything. She remembers this part. Worrying that she'd lost this, too. That she couldn't love this place any more. Not ever again.

She remembers, and it feels like an awful, awful mistake.

He shifts in his seat. He bites out a broken curse, because it hurts. His face is blank. Pressed to the window until he jams on the button to roll it down. The whole interior of the car is damp. Immediately, even though it's more a blanket of heavy mist than rain. It creeps in.

She brings the car to a stop and stares down hard at her own knuckles. At the water beading on them and catching the blue light of the dash. She thinks it's a terrible mistake, but his head ducks back in. He swivels to look at her and his eyes are wide. His hair is blue, too. Drops of water catching the glow, and he looks astonished.

"There. . . is. _It _is." He stumbles over the words. "Did . . . did not." He forgets everything he's supposed to be doing. He chases from word to word, exactly like he shouldn't. "Thought. . . ." He leans in with the words still tumbling over one another. "Didn't believe. It's there."

He kisses her quickly. The work of a breath and he turns back peering through the fog.

"Still there." She smiles into his hair. Against his shoulder as he sticks his head out the window again. "Spectacular."

* * *

><p>He insists on climbing the stairs.<p>

"Castle . . . " She stands at the bottom with her arms spread. Like she can close her hands around all the possibilities on this floor. All the space available that might not be the death of both of them.

He stops three steps up. He turns and holds his hand out, smiling even though the skin is tight around his eyes and mouth. "Our room."

She can't exactly say no to that, and he knows it. She sticks out her tongue at him and reaches for his fingers. "Our room."

He's leaning hard on her shoulder by the time they make it to the top. His heart is pounding with more than the effort, though. He rushes them. Braces his other hand on the wall and propels them forward.

She crowds up behind him as he stands in the doorway. She presses her cheek to his shoulder blade, keeping contact but giving him a second to take it in. She knows. She thinks of Martha lingering in the hall when she'd insisted.

He's still. Silent, but she feels him relax. Air rushing out of him. He turns half toward her. Raises her arm and shoos her in front of him. He leans on the door and wraps her in a hug from behind.

"Mess." He nudges her cheek with his nose. Points her at the water glass with his lip print on it. The books toppled all over the surface of the nightstand. His robe crumpled on the foot of the bed. "Kind of . . . Beckett. Kind of a mess."

* * *

><p>She wakes up disoriented. Out of her body, somehow, and her first thought is that it's a different kind of dark.<p>

_Night_, she thinks, but that doesn't seem right. She doesn't even remember falling asleep. It can't be night.

She rolls on to her side. Into something heavy. Something solid and warm that smells familiar. Comforting and perfect at first, but sadness washes through her, then. Grief.

_Castle_.

Her lips form the words. Her tongue moves in her mouth, but nothing comes out. Her fingers close around soft fabric. His robe. She remembers and her mind tells her that he's gone.

_It__'__s a dream._

That comes out in a sob, but there are arms around her right away. Fingers sweeping tears off her cheeks.

"No. No no no, Beckett." A singsong with breath fanning across her forehead. "No, not a dream. Here. We . . . us. We are _here.__" _

She opens her eyes. That's the trouble. Part of it, anyway. Her eyes are heavy and she feels raw.

"Crying," he says, his troubled face blurred above her. "Didn't well . . . did not _want_. You need sleep. But you were car . . . cray . . ."

"Crying." She gathers herself. She pulls her body up his, her fists clenched around folds of his robe. "Crying. But not now"

"Not now," he repeats. He croons it as he presses her face to his shoulder and rocks her. "Not now."


	3. Chapter 3

Libration, Ch. 3

Rating: T

WC: ~1200 this chapter, ~5000 so far

Summary: "She's up before the sun. Not that she can tell. It's gray, again, but she doesn't mind so much today. It feels like she has the perfect day with her."

A/N: One more brief chapter posted simultaneously with this and chapter 2.

* * *

><p>She's up before the sun. Not that she can tell. It's gray, again, but she doesn't mind so much today. It feels like she has the perfect day with her.<p>

There's a glimpse of him through the French doors. The heap of him tangled in blankets and she'd swear there's more of him. It's been less than a day, but she'd swear he's put on flesh and settled into the full breadth of his shoulders.

She leans back with her elbows on the balcony railing and tips her face up to the mist.

"Kate." He calls out. It's sleepy and a little cross. He's shivering as she drops on the bed beside him. "Cold."

"Sorry." She tries to pull back. She's wet all over. Her hair. Dew beading on the robe she's holding closed over her chest. "Castle!"

"Cold," he says again. He tugs at her. More than cross now. Grumpy. "Not me, Beckett." He hauls himself to the side, wincing a little as his leg bears the weight. He slithers further down and holds up the blankets. "You. Cold. Get _in_, Beckett."

She does. She grins and shimmies close, shivering herself as he snuffles at her shoulder like a hound on the scent.

"Castle!" It's sharp, but she doesn't pull away. "Guilty," she says as he peels the robe back from her shoulder and peers at the fabric suspiciously. "Your robe. You want it back?"

"No." He smooths it back down. He pulls the lapels together high under her chin. "Mine?"

He looks down at it again, then back up at her, like he's confused.

"Yours," she says and she tries to hide the worry. He hasn't forgotten things in a while. He's been good—remarkably good—on that score and they'd written the confusion off to the medication.

_You want it? _She's just about to ask again. As soon as she's sure her voice will be steady, because she can't let him see her worry.

But the lines smooth out of his face and he buries his nose under her chin.

"Mine," he mumbles and it's happy. Warm and full of feeling and it's not that he doesn't remember. "You, though. Smiles?" He frowns at that. An exaggerated, goofy grimace at the hollow of her throat."_Smells _like you."

* * *

><p>The sun comes out while they have their coffee. While they gorge themselves on things from the fridge.<p>

"Martha," she says, grinning as she peels the cover back from an elegant tray of tiny pastries.

"Alexis." He shoves candy in his mouth. Something brightly colored and awful looking, though he rolls his eyes in bliss. "Good," he mutters. "Good kid."

It's chilly still, but they sprawl on the porch anyway. She drags a padded lounge chair around from the pool and he pulls her down to sit with him. He stretches out his bad leg and plants his foot on the deck and they settle in.

They talk. She talks, but he asks. Prompts her.

"You knew?"

He asks after a while, and she knows exactly. She should make him spell it out, even so. The whole question. It's good practice for them both. But the last of the fog curls out over the water. It leaves sparkling blue behind and she turns her cheek to his chest.

"I knew." She feels his chin bob at the crown of her head. A hard swallow. "I didn't say at first. Couldn't. But I knew."

They talk quietly. She talks, mostly. Obviously. The reversal feels right here. Less like something they've lost and more like it's always been between them in this place. Since the second time, anyway.

He asks for stories and she tells him. Little pieces of what happened and how. Nothing too heavy for either of them, though she worries about that at first.

But she talks because he wants her to. Because it pleases him and it's restful. He interrupts, before too long. He embellishes. He adds words, then phrases. Strings of two and three, and it all come easier in a whisper like this.

It's another thing that works, like a song in her ear. Like early morning before they both remember how hard this is.

* * *

><p>It's a gorgeous day, eventually. It shapes up that way as they follow their lazy ambition.<p>

The pool is heaven once she talks him into it, but that takes some doing.

"Tired." He scowls. "Therapy. Just list . . . just looking. Tired."

But she coaxes. She wheedles until he sits on the edge with his feet dangling.

She floats on her back out to the center. She abandons him and it's not long before he splashes in. He gives chase and his face lights up when he gets it. When he realizes he's weightless and there are no rules. Not drills or weights or reps. Just sunlight warming his eyelids and their fingers brushing.

"Told you," she says, smiling up at the blue, blue sky.

"Smug," he mutters. "Cheeky." He thinks about it. Cracks an eye open. "Impertinent."

"Right," she shoots back. "Spot on." She laughs, thinking about it. _S_s and _T_s delicious on her tongue. "Prescient."

* * *

><p>The sun climbs in the sky. They dry off and bicker about the hammock.<p>

"You're going to kill yourself, Castle!" She snaps it out before she can think. Horror bleaches the color from her cheeks before she's even finished.

"Waste." He gives her a dry look as he jerks the second knot tight and tests his weight against the hook. "That would be . . . a _waste_ after all this."

He grips the edge and tips back. A controlled fall and he swings one leg up easily. The other not quite, but he's in. A breeze stands his hair on end and the color in his skin is gorgeous against the bright silk of it. The sunlight finds a home there now. It finds a home in him, though he was so pale just yesterday.

She leans over to kiss him. To say she's sorry and tell him to budge over, but his mouth is slack. He's already asleep.

She leaves him to it. She creeps a little ways away and slides the phone from her beach cover up. Alexis answers on half a ring.

_How is it? How's Dad? How are_ you?

It spills out all at once, eager and happy. Excited for them. An apology dies on Kate's lips. There's no worry. No resentment at all and she wonders why she dreamed there would be.

She opens her mouth to answer, but Martha's voice bubbles up in the background.

_Oh, don't be silly, Alexis. It's marvelous. _

Alexis shushes her. She covers the phone and Kate hears the sound of good-natured bickering.

_Sorry_, _Kate._ She's trying to sound stern, but it's hard through the smile Kate can hear.

"No, she's right." She sends a smile of her own all the way down the line. "It's marvelous."


	4. Chapter 4

Libration, Ch. 4

Rating: T

WC: ~1400 this chapter, ~6500 total

Summary: "His face lights up and goes dim, almost in the same moment. He looks out the window and she has it, then. He's sad. He's sad and her first thought is how she's missed it. Something as simple as wistfulness. She's missed it amid everything else. Terror and anguish. Struggle and exhaustion and despair in the middle of the night."

* * *

><p>She watches him, trying to decide if it's a good idea or not. If he's up for it or too tired. If he'll want to go to bed with the sun or . . . she doesn't know, so she watches closely as day slides behind the house and the sky fades to violet over the water.<p>

"Tired?"

He's gone quiet. Quiet_er, _and she realizes it's ridiculous so she asks.

He stirs himself. Calls up a smile and says no.

"Not tired," he adds, showing off. "Green . . . _great_ nap. Shoulda been there."

She flicks his ear as she leans in to clear his plate and he's smiling for real. He's not tired. She doesn't think so, but he's . . . something. He's _something _and she thinks maybe this isn't a good idea.

She keeps her back to him. She fusses at the sink and mulls it over, but he knows. Of course he knows.

"You tired?" She hesitates, and that doesn't help. "Kate?"

"No." She makes up her mind. She turns to him and decides to just ask. To just let him say if it's not a good idea. "You up for the beach?"

His face lights up and goes dim, almost in the same moment. He looks out the window and she has it, then. He's sad. He's _sad_ and her first thought is how she's missed it. Something as simple as wistfulness. She's missed it amid everything else. Terror and anguish. Struggle and exhaustion and despair in the middle of the night.

But he's nothing like that right now. He's sad. She goes to him. She winds her arms around his neck and he buries his face against her belly.

"Why?" she asks softly as though he knows what she means. "What is it?"

He does. He seems to know. "Just . . ."

"It's ok . . ." she begins, but he shakes his head.

"No. Sim . . . sic . . . _silly_." He kisses between her ribs. "I am . . . being silly."

She won't budge, though. She wants to know. She just wants him to say. "Castle."

He peers up at her. A lopsided smile, like he knows he's caught, and he comes out with it. "Moon. No moon."

"No moon," she repeats. She grins, because it's perfect. She leans down to kiss him. "No moon," she says again before she spins away and ducks into a cabinet.

She's back before he can call after her. Before he can even really frown. She twists up behind him and reaches over his shoulder and plants it on the table in front of him.

He stares at it. The bottle. He narrows his eyes at the label. "What _is _it?"

"Cheap wine," she murmurs in his ear. "Terrible wine with a screw top. I might put ice in it."

"Cheap . . ." he echoes. "No moon. _Beach_. The beach." He smiles up at her. "Take me."

* * *

><p>It's rough going, more because they're laughing than anything to do with his leg. They're a little drunk already, though the screw top is still intact. They're a little in love with everything that's wrong with this.<p>

He holds his hands high. Red cups in one and the bottle in the other while she snaps the blanket in the wind and wrestles it to the ground. She kicks at the beach grass and stomps would-be drifts into submission.

He hands over his burden and she twists it into the sand. The bottle in one hollow and the short stack of plastic cups rattling with a handful of stones she grabbed for weight from a bowl int he kitchen.

She helps him down most of the way. He falls the rest. Good at it by now and his mouth only twists a little as he pulls her to his side. He reaches for the bottle.

"My cheap wine." She slaps his hand away. "I pour."

He grumbles, but settles for holding the cup steady—one, then the other—and glaring when she tries to cut his off at a bare inch. "Beckett!"

"What?" She lifts the bottle out of reach. "You're not supposed to have _any_."

"Not supposed to," he mimics her tone, and it's a little too good.

A little too easy, and it leaves her gaping while he steals a long pull from the more generous cup. He coughs half of it up. He sputters and she drags a hand up his back.

"See?" She's scolding. Trying to make light, but she's shaking. "Not supposed to have any."

"Not supposed to," he says again, a little winded. "Gonna."

He tips the cup back again, but he sips this time. He savors the mouthful even though she can tell it's terrible. That any other night he'd turn his nose up and tell her how he wouldn't even _cook _with it. But his eyes slip shut and he savors it. It's another thing reclaimed and she lets _supposed to _go.

She takes the other cup from his hand. The short pour. She knocks it back and tips the bottle again. He holds his cup out and she pushes toward it. She leans to kiss him and doesn't care that it's splashing everywhere. Darkening the blanket and spotting the sand at their feet. He buries his fingers in her hair and kisses her back, laughing and trailing the tip of his tongue at the corner of her mouth to catch a stray drop.

"Terrible," he says. He knocks his cup into hers.

She echoes him. "Terrible."

* * *

><p>They put the wine aside before too long. It tips over. An errant flick of her foot as he tries to pull her on top of him entirely.<p>

"Oh," she says faintly as she feels liquid trickling between her toes.

"Leave it," he says against her lips. "Terrible ant." He breaks away, too perplexed to keep kissing her. "Anyway. Terribly anyway."

She takes advantage. Comes up for breath, because . . . not supposed to.

He whines as she rolls on to her elbow, like he knows what she's thinking.

She doubts it for once. _Not supposed to, _yes, but beyond that,_ she_ doesn't know what she's thinking, and she needs to breathe.

"Be right back," she tells him, softening it with a kiss as she pushes to her knees.

She slips off her sandals and walks down to the water. She wades in to the ankle and smiles back at him.

He waves. Laughs as the water rolls in before she was expecting and soaks the rolled up cuffs of her capris. She lets it chase her back to him. She drops to her knees and leans over for a kiss, but he stops her with a palm at her cheek. He studies her face in the moonless night.

"Are you?" he asks, and she wants to tilt her head to the side.

_Am I? _It's what she wants to say and not just because it's what she's supposed to do. Prompt and repetition. She wants to pretend she doesn't know, but she can't. She won't.

"Sad?"

He nods. "Sad. Are you sad?"

"Castle . . ." She shifts on to her thigh. Steals his hand back when it drops from her cheek. "How could I be?"

"Supposed to . . ." He looks out at the water, though. Down at her hand and she remembers her engagement ring sitting by the kitchen sink. "We were sup . . . supposed to get . . . _married_."

"Still are." She says it instantly. "We still will."

"When?" He looks lost. The fingers of his free hand come up to knead his thigh and his throat works like there are a dozen questions trapped in it.

"Tonight," she says. She laughs when his head snaps up. When he looks at her like she's crazy. "In the morning. As soon as Martha and Alexis and my dad can drive up." She thinks about it. "Lanie and the boys. Because Lanie would kill us . . ." She leans to whisper in his ear. "Whenever we want."

His face is a picture. Melancholy warring with a smile, and the look that says she's lost it coming out on top. _Consternation,_ she thinks with a laugh. His face is a picture of consternation.

"Vows," he says. His fingers come up between them to brush her lips. His own. "I want . . . when . . . _vows_."

"When you can say them." She kisses his fingertips. She holds on to them. "That sounds good. Right. When you can say them."

"Soon." He presses his forehead to hers. "I'll be . . . soon, Kate."

"Soon," she says it back to him. Finishes the sentence, even though she's not supposed to. "You'll be able to soon."

* * *

><p>AN: That's it for this series, and in general. Thanks to those who took time to read and leave comments.


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